by Jilly Cooper
Apocalypse had also learnt one vital lesson from Luke. They had practised, played, almost slept together all summer and knew each others’ ponies backwards. They wanted not individual glory, but for the team to win. The twins, normally attacking players, were marking the hell out of Angel and Red, driving them crackers.
There were plenty of spats. Angel, thundering down the boards, was being threatened by Ricky.
‘Get out of my way, you fucker,’ he howled. ‘Puniatero, forro, Eenglish preek!’ Then, seeing Drew out of the corner of his eye, added with excessive politeness, ‘Excuse me, Meester France-Lynch, my line I theenk,’ and clouted the ball straight between Kinta’s legs.
Up went Ricky’s stick. ‘Foul!’ he yelled at Drew. ‘Dangerous stick work.’
‘He crossed me,’ protested Angel.
‘He pulled up on the ball,’ shouted Ricky. ‘If Kinta’s got any legs left, it’s no thanks to him.’
Drew, reluctant to be accused of bias, turned to Shark Nelligan, the other umpire.
‘Apocalypse foul,’ said Shark.
‘Thank you, Mr Nelligan,’ said Angel making a V-sign on his mud-spattered thigh, but only lifting it an inch in Ricky’s direction. He found the flags without difficulty.
‘High time the Argies came back,’ said David Waterlane, returning the pressure of Sharon’s leg.
In the third chukka the score stuck at 3-2 to the Flyers, as ponies and players, all plastered with mud, groped desperately for a foothold, trying to gain the ascendancy as the usual thunderous dry rattle of hooves was replaced by the dull relentless thud of a murderer’s cudgel.
Then by some miracle Dancer, who’d been marked by Bart, got the ball.
‘And here comes Dancer,’ said Terry Hanlon, the Cowdray commentator, ‘heading for goal; riding, riding, riding, famine, justice, pestilence, and whoops, oh dear, he didn’t connect with that offside forehand and the ball went wide. Got the mud to hide your blushes. Stick to singing in future, Dancer.’
The stands giggled. As Dancer hung his head, Bart picked up the ball and backed it to Red, who missed it completely, then, spinning round, picked it up and came triumphantly down the field, dummying past Seb, then Ricky, then Dommie, whipping and whipping Glitz into a breakneck gallop until the crowd started grumbling with disapproval.
‘And here comes Red Alderton,’ said Terry Hanlon, dropping his voice an octave, ‘who’s lived more nights than days. Look at him opening up his shoulders for the big one. And it’s a goal, ladies and gentlemen and seahorses, 4-2 to the Flyers.’
Back in the pony lines, grooms had the thankless task of getting the mud off and drying utterly exhausted ponies in torrential rain. The Apocalypse grooms, in their black bomber jackets, had experienced such conditions and were far more cheerful than the Flyers’ Argentines who hated rain as much as Angel. Wayne, utterly unplacated by four ounces of barley sugar and a bucket of water, still sulking with his head down, suddenly heard his old friend and last year’s team-mate, Spotty, yelling out for Tero, who was still on the field, and started calling back like a lunatic. Ducking out of his headcollar, whickering with delight, he bustled off to join Spotty across a sea of mud and started kissing and nuzzling him all over.
‘Get that fucking dog off the pitch,’ roared Bart, as his weary pony nearly tripped over Little Chef racing out to welcome Ricky as the players came off at half-time.
Apocalypse had contained the Flyers very well, and Bart, not best pleased, went off to shout at his team. ‘We should be at least five goals up by now.’
‘Well done,’ said Ricky quietly to Dancer and the twins. ‘We’ve rattled them. Now we’ve got to get some goals.’
Hearing ‘Tea for Two’ over the tannoy, Wayne bustled off towards the tea tent. Drew, tweed cap resting on his eyelashes, riding round on his drenched pony as the crowd swarmed back to the stands after treading in, thought how amazing it was that the field, which, five minutes ago, had been a black sea of holes and divots, was now a smooth sweep of emerald green again. Like my marriage, he thought wryly, and for a second scoured the stands for Daisy, hoping she might have turned up. He’d promised to ring her during the week, but he’d been too busy to get over to Eldercombe and he hated hearing the disappointment in her voice. He’d try and get her this evening, although he could hardly cheer her up with the news that Perdita was playing well.
Perdita was equally conscious she wasn’t pulling her weight. Bart had yelled at her so continually she hardly heard him. Then, in the fourth chukka, Angel gave her a pass, and there was only forty yards between her and goal. Perdita was so surprised she hesitated, but Tero, putting on an amazing turn of speed, took her upfield, placing her beside the ball, so she was able to judge the first shot beautifully. Now the ball was waiting for her, ten feet in front of the goal. Oh, please God. God blocked his ears, and she hit a divot instead of the ball. Frantically she tugged at the sodden reins and, willing Tero, turned on her hocks at full gallop. That’s a good pony, thought Red.
But as the little mare floundered to stay upright, she slipped and came down with Perdita beneath her. The crowd gave a gasp of horror and agreed it was not a girl’s game. Tero rolled off in a trice. Seeing Perdita was moving, Red belted off to change ponies. When he returned, Perdita was screaming at Bart: ‘I can’t go on. I’ve got to change my breeches.’
Glancing down, Red saw blood mingling with the mud. All the trauma over Chessie had made the curse so late Perdita’d forgotten all about it.
‘There’s only ninety seconds to go,’ shouted Bart.
‘Everyone’ll notice.’
‘If you play in a man’s game, you play by men’s rules,’ howled Red. ‘Get back on that pony. Pull your shirt outside.’
Angel put an arm round Perdita’s shoulder, feeling her shaking with sobs. ‘No one can see zee blood for zee mud,’ he said comfortingly.
‘Your daughter seems to be getting rather a lot of earache from my husband,’ said Chessie slyly to Rupert as the clock started again.
Rupert gazed stonily ahead, holding Taggie’s hand so tightly that she winced.
‘Mr Alderton is a very forceful captain,’ said Gisela Wallstein, who was bitterly cold and couldn’t understand what was going on at all.
‘Oh, Bart always shouts when he’s near the stands,’ said Chessie lightly. ‘The team don’t take any notice, but the crowd think what a big macho guy.’
Helmut Wallstein looked round at Chessie speculatively. ‘I have not often seen such beautiful horses.’
‘Subsidized by Alderton Airlines,’ said Chessie with a shrug.
Sukey paused in the menus she was writing out for two dinner parties next week. If Drew were just umpiring, she felt it was all right only to keep half an eye on the game.
‘How can you be so unsupportive, Chessie?’ she murmured.
‘Vot is the name of that bay mare he’s riding now?’ asked Helmut.
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘You should be able to recognize Bart’s ponies,’ reproved Sukey. ‘That’s Marina, a Criolla pony from Argentina,’ she told Helmut.
Chessie turned smiling to Sukey. ‘Do remind me to take your husband to bed when I get a moment.’
Sukey went magenta, but her reply was drowned by Terry Hanlon telling them that the head had broken off Ricky’s stick in the desperate mêlée in the Apocalypse goal mouth.
‘And Ricky France-Lynch is managing to do an amazing amount of damage with his stick alone, but it’s looking very dangerous for Apocalypse. Is it going to be 6-2? No, Seb Carlisle’s taken the ball upfield.’
Swinging round, Ricky thundered towards the boards where his sticks were leaning against the fence, their handles fretting in the wind.
‘Fifty-one,’ he bellowed to Louisa. But for once Chessie was too quick. Bounding down the gangway, she snatched the right stick and handed it to Ricky. For a second their eyes met.
‘Good luck darling, you’re doing brilliantly,’ she called out quite audibly.
> ‘And Mrs Alderton is giving her ex-husband stick,’ announced Terry Hanlon drily. ‘Ex-wives generally do, I expect she was asking for more dosh.’ The crowd, despite being drenched, giggled.
Mr and Mrs Wallstein exchanged surprised glances. ‘Is it customary in England you support the other side?’
‘Only if your name’s Oswald Mosley,’ snapped Rupert.
Conditions were worsening, the rain coming down in a steady torrent, the wind growing more vicious. Ricky had found Kinta’s strength in the third chukka a two-edged sword. She was powerful enough to play two, even three chukkas, but in these conditions she was a liability because she wouldn’t stop.
Ricky couldn’t afford any more penalties if Kinta cannoned into other ponies or barged across their right of way. As he rode back to the pony lines at the end of the fourth chukka, he shouted to Louisa to tack up Wayne for the last chukka. This was the kind of weather when you needed old friends.
‘Oh my God,’ muttered Louisa as she handed his new, dark brown pony, Corporal, over to Dommie. ‘Wayne’s sunk a bucket of water, had half a ton of barley sugar and I’ve just retrieved him from the Flyer’s pony lines with chocolate cake all over his whiskers trying to mount Spotty. Should I tell Ricky?’
‘Leave it,’ said Dommie. ‘If he gives Ricky confidence, that’s what matters.’ He looked down at Louisa’s plump, freckled, mud-spattered face. Her hair clung to her head like a mermaid.
‘Will you sleep with me if we win?’
Louisa’s smile suddenly lit up the Cowdray gloom. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Yes, please.’
‘And if we lose, so I don’t shoot myself?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Louisa.
The mud in fact had been too thick for any of the crowd to notice the blood, but, still numb with embarrassment and misery and shaken by the fall, Perdita felt even more conspicuous riding back on to the field in snow-white breeches.
‘You’ve got two chukkas left to redeem yourself,’ said Bart bullyingly. ‘You don’t want to be the reason we lost the cup.’
The Flyers had a good fifth chukka, dominating the play and pushing the score up to 6-2, then Apocalypse caught fire, and Seb and Ricky both scored in the closing minutes and the stands went wild.
As the players rode out for the last chukka, it was noticed that Red had taken off the white sweater he wore under his blue polo shirt for the first time this season.
‘That’s ominous,’ said Ricky. ‘Get your fingers out, Apocalypse.’
After two minutes of frantic barging and bumps-a-daisy, Red took matters into his own hands. Giving Dommie and Seb the slip and Glitz his head, he raced off upfield.
That’s it, thought Ricky dully. That’ll be 7-4; there’s only Dancer anywhere near him.
God had let Dancer down last time, so this time he concentrated on Red, who was messing around in front of goal, insolently positioning himself so he could score the clinching goal. But as he lifted his stick, he found himself nearly pulled off his horse. Dancer had hooked him.
‘With pressure it is better,’ said Helmut Wallstein. ‘He had all zee time in the world, and he relaxed.’
‘Well hooked, Dancer. You read the play,’ hollered Dommie, grinning out of his round ruffian blackamore face, as he raced Corporal down to bring the ball back to Ricky. Perdita, who was out of position and should have been marking Dancer, raced back towards the Apocalypse goal. But as all the players converged on Ricky trying to help or hinder him, a pony kicked a divot up in Perdita’s eyes, totally blinding her, so she crashed across Ricky’s right of way. Up went every Apocalypse stick.
‘Foul,’ screamed the twins.
Ricky on Wayne took the penalty.
‘Pale rider, pale horse,’ said William Loyd.
‘And his name was death to the Flyers’ hopes,’ murmured Chessie.
The wind, which had been Ricky’s enemy all day, had moved slightly to the south. Slowly he cantered a circle that would have won a dressage prize. The picture of control, his gait as smooth as his yellow face was ugly, Wayne floated proudly towards the ball. There was a ripple of muscle, the piston arm hurtled down again, Ricky aimed deliberately to the left and nudged back by the wind, the ball sailed high above the leaping Flyers’ sticks, slap between the posts. The crowd, who could hardly see through the rain, waited on tenterhooks, then, seeing the waving yellow flag, bellowed their delight.
‘The penalty is mightier than the sword,’ cried Chessie, clapping ecstatically.
There were two and a half minutes to go, the score was 6-5 and Dommie, mis-hitting, clouted the ball towards the Flyers’ goal-mouth, but to no-one in particular. Ahead of everyone, Red scorched after it, flogging Glitz like a jockey at Tattenham Corner. Glitz, however, was fed up with the weather and too many hidings. He was used to cheering crowds under a Palm Beach sun as he shook off the opposition like a dog a towel. Out of the corner of his beautiful eye, he saw Wayne hurtling down to ride him off. Wayne was very ugly and his pale face was fearsome. Red turned his heel into Glitz’s sodden right flank to turn him left. He had heard that Wayne was spooked about bumping and anticipated no contest. The next minute Glitz had ducked out and Ricky had taken the line.
‘You fucking son of a bitch,’ screamed Red to Glitz, but it was too late.
‘I misjudged you, you old bugger, I’m sorry,’ said Ricky in amazement, as Wayne pulled away from the tiring Glitz.
The buttercup-yellow posts rose out of the gloom to his left. Master of the cut shot, Ricky sliced the ball, but, scuppered by nerves, he misjudged and hit the post.
‘Oh,’ groaned the crowd.
Bart hit in. A minute and a half to go. Seb blocked the shot and passed to Dommie, who tapped it in, screaming with frustration as again it hit the post.
‘The afternoon of the woodwork,’ said Terry Hanlon sympathetically.
But an instant later Ricky had thundered in and slapped in a tennis shot in the air. Chessie’s scream of joy was not the only one. Six all, a minute to go.
Suddenly the rain stopped, every tree and flat cap dripped, water cascaded down spectators’ necks as other spectators lowered their umbrellas. The Gold Cup on its green baize table was carried out and glittered like the Holy Grail in a lone shaft of sunlight. As the ball flashed frantically from goal-mouth to goal-mouth and Bart crashed round like a maddened Rottweiler, bumping into everyone, the crowd were on their feet yelling their heads off. Now they were down the Flyers’ end and Seb, Dommie, Ricky and Dancer were all taking desperate swipes at the ball until it was buried, trodden deep into the ground, with everyone frantically looking for it until the whistle went.
After a lot of shouting, the ball was dug out and thrown in where it had been buried, twenty yards in front of goal.
‘This is very dangerous for the Flyers,’ warned Terry Hanlon. ‘The fat is in the fire, the chips are in the pan.’
‘Get it out,’ screamed Red, as the frantically thrashing sticks hit ponies’ and players’ legs indiscriminately in a churning whirlpool of mud. Then, god-given, the ball rolled out on Perdita’s side. At last she had a chance to redeem herself and get the ball back upfield. Throwing herself forward, her fingers in her slippery glove lost control of her stick, which totally mis-hit the ball.
‘Oh no, please God, no,’ she screamed in horror, as the ball slowly trickled between her own goal posts. For a second the goal judge seemed as stunned as she was, then slowly up went the flag once again. Bart’s anguished howl of rage was drowned by the sound of the bell.
And it was all over and Ricky was shaking hands with everyone and thanking Shark and Drew, who, abandoning any attempt at impartiality, put his arm round Ricky’s shoulders, yelling: ‘Fucking, fucking marvellous.’
Dancer was crying openly.
‘You did it, you bleedin’ did it,’ he shouted at the twins.
‘You bleeding did it,’ shouted back Seb. ‘You hooked Red when he would have scored the winning goal, didn’t he, Dommie?’ But Dommie was streaking up
the field as fast as tired, little Corporal could carry him and was next seen locked in an ecstatic Louisa’s arms. Little Chef darting through equine and human legs, as the crowd spilled overjoyed on to the pitch, took a flying leap on to Ricky’s saddle, frantically licking away the tears of joy that striped his master’s blackened face.
‘We won, Cheffie,’ Ricky babbled to him incoherently. ‘We fucking did it, Cheffie.’
Mishearing him, a maddened Bart stopped in his tracks.
‘You may have won the cup, you asshole, but you won’t get her. She’s fucking mine!’
Bewildered for an instant, Ricky realized that, in the joy of winning, he’d forgotten all about Chessie.
As he rode off the field, shaking hands with everyone, Louisa, extricating herself from Dommie’s embrace, ran up to him.
‘Oh, it’s so lovely, Wayne’s won Best Playing Pony.’
Seb, shaking up a magnum of champagne, made everyone even wetter than they were already. Terry Hanlon had to exert all his vocal skills to get things on course for the presentation.
‘Put your cigarettes out before you come up,’ he chided the teams. ‘We’ll have the bad boys first.’
As Seb sauntered up, he turned grinning to the jostling reporters and cameramen and made a very pointed V-sign.
‘Too many late nights indeed.’
Good-naturedly, they cheered and whooped.
Ricky’s face was impassive as he accepted the huge glittering cup from Lord Cowdray, but later, when it was filled with champagne, he grimly raised it to Chessie who was making no attempt to contain her delight.
